Our lives alibis

Chapter26: If you go away

If you go away ... (preferably version Emiliana Torrini P. Kaas at the limit)

POV Scorpius

The green escaped me.

The subtle shade of green that I have been looking for for years.

This green that I invent from table to table, this aquamarine green, flirting with the blue, which made my glory. The one I found in your eyes.

You left.

Green has fled with you.

I block my jaw around this glass of champagne, not to scream, and the crystal explodes.

The red flows, dripping on the white and the black, while I spit out the broken glass.

The lights go out around me, my father rushes to help me, the shapes are deformed, lie down, my legs flex and I fall softly.

The green escaped me and the glass bit me.

The white handkerchief handed to me by my father is stained with carmine, and the stars are dancing before my eyes. My ears are buzzing. I fall on a chair.

- Is it ok Scorpius? asks my father, worried.

- Yes, I am fine.

- What happened?

- I bit in the glass ... he broke. It's silly. It's nothing.

Everyone looks at me with concern. Fortunately, there are not many people left. My father takes out his wand, whispers a spell and the pain stops.

This one at least.

I get up, a little stunned.

The gallery, immersed in semi-darkness, seems strange to me. Deserted. Metallic, like the taste of carmine in my mouth. My steps echo excessively.

I advance towards the exit, on the radar, and Rupert comes to meet me, mad with rage. The warm brown of his eyes turns to anthracite and his mouth is distorted by hatred:

- You got me, right? Did you both have me?

- What did we get?

I turn to fix the picture you did not take, and I still do not understand. The branches nuance hers tear the character ceruse, as in your dream, but you did not take it.

I painted it for you. You do not want it.

It's worth a fortune, and you do not want it.

He is like me. It's worthless.

Rupert catches me by the arm and shakes me:

- You listen to me ? Your little cinema. Nothing to tell. Nothing important. You speak. You made a good fool of me, with your lies. But ... what are these stains on your shirt?

- Hemoglobin. Alizarin? No, garnet ... The blood is beautiful when it is fresh, you do not find?

- Damn, but what have you taken yet? What were you doing this time?

- Glass...

- Green? Good listening. I was more than patient, but that's enough. This painting belongs to the gallery, do you hear me? You hold on to it like in the apple of your eyes, and you want to give it to a vague friend? Unless it's something else for you?

The slate of his look makes me feel guilty, and tiredness twists my foggy brain:

- What ? He's still here, the painting, right? What do you like so much about this painting? What does it evoke? A memory ? A nightmare ? Or a dream with six zeros?